About two years ago, as we combined families we went through
a period of ‘yes’. The answer to everything was pretty much, 'yes'.
The kids all wanted pets, we wanted to be ‘fair’ and so of
course we at one point had two birds, two fish, two dogs, two cats and two
rabbits. It was damn near Noah's Ark at The Stella.
The rabbits weren’t long for life. Bought from the same
breeder they unexpectedly died within a couple months, leaving devastated boys
behind. A call to grandma and a recommendation: get them kittens. Kittens are much
sturdier.
And so, we've shifted pets a bit. The birds and cats together were a bad
idea… after a little circle of life situation we were down a bird. The other
one was re-homed to another family who lost one to a cat as well.
Now, two years later, we have four cats (one for each kid)
and three dogs. Oh, there’s a fish left too. Somehow, with minimal care, it
soldiers on.
Sophie, was a bottle fed orphan. Shy. She
doesn’t like strangers. At all. She prefers Madi to any other living being. Other than
being found in the middle of Stark Street in Portland, she has spent no time
outdoors and has no interest in hunting and/or gathering.
Pixie is a fancy cat. She’s a British Short Hair. She’s persnickety.
She’s the kind of cat who when you reach out to pet her, takes a step away
from you. She’s also a diabolical mercenary. Now that we don't have parakeets, fledglings are her favorite
afternoon snacks. I get attached to the fledglings born to robins in our porch baskets and thus spend a decent amount of time removing Pixie from the area.
Dwight. Originally, Ellie. Until we realized that the recently
adopted girl kitty had balls. Afraid of most things. Or, realistically, everything. Likes to go outside and
peek into robins’ nests. Appears utterly confused as to what to do next. 
Bear. Barry. Also known as Fat Bastard. Must be sitting on a
person whenever a person is available. Preferably your head. Known to chase a squirrel once.
Never put out that level of physical exertion again. Drools, weighs 16 pounds and has an udder that swings under him as he walks.
A couple months ago, I bought a bat box. I love the idea. The
bats will swoop through the yard at dusk gobbling up mosquitos. Bats are
slightly scary but mosquitos are horrible so I’d rather go with bats. I haven’t
hung the bat house up yet as it requires a purchase of bat pheromones which is
a task that hasn’t yet been completed. It’s on the to do list. The to do list
is always long.
This is called foreshadowing...
I’m in bed. It’s after 10 which is pretty late for me. Barry
comes in. This is never good as he tends to hide and then around 2AM changes sleeping positions. To one of our heads.
He’s on the window seat. The window is open. Under our side
window is a little bump out from the dining room below. Cats being cats, they
like to sit there, on the roof of the bump out, surveying the North side of the property. Sometimes to their detriment as I close the window while
they are unseen out there. Cue 2AM meowing. Also known as singing the song of their
people.
“Barry is in here,” I called to Deb. That’s her cue that
since I’m already in bed and she isn’t, I have passed the Barry grabbing task
to her. This is unwritten.
He jumped out the window. And right back in.
Maybe he is getting smarter about getting locked out. Or he's just weird.
When Deb came in from the bathroom she asked as she walked
over to close the window, “Is Barry out there?”
“No. He’s in.”
“In here?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He went out and right back in. I think he
went upstairs.”
Deb got into bed and pulled out her book.
A few minutes later, a knock came to the door. A sheepish
boy entered, flashlight on, “I think Barry caught something. I can hear him
running around and there is a weird sound upstairs.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, let’s take a look.” I am doubtful that Barry could catch anything. Other than some type of expensive cat illness. I grabbed my
phone and turned on the flashlight.
The three of us step into the hall. The girls poke their
heads out of their rooms. “What’s going on?”
“J thinks Barry caught something.”
“I’ve been hearing a weird noise.”
The girls followed.
There are now five of us headed up the narrow staircase.
Armed with two flashlights.
As I passed Henley’s door, I banged on it. Loudly. “Get out
here. Your cat caught something and it’s running around up here.”
It should be noted that I avoid boy land at nearly all
costs. It just makes my blood pressure go up. I glanced around. “Jesus you
guys. Would it kill you to tidy?”
Barry was on the buffet that acts as a television stand at
the other side of the room. I could see the back half of him. The front half
hidden behind the TV. He thinks that he’s invisible if he can’t see you.
I peeked around the TV, expecting to see a fledgling or baby
squirrel. The only things I think he could possibly catch.
But it wasn't a fledgling or baby squirrel.
“OH SHIT! BAAAAAAAAAT!”
At my outburst, Barry spit the not at all dead bat out. It
turned, took one look at me, hissed and flew over my head.
The girls, screaming, ran down the stairs and slammed the
door.
There are now four of us. Two boys. Two moms. All in shock while a bat circles
the vaulted ceiling of a remodeled attic.
It landed on a shelf above the staircase windows. We closed
the rest of the doors to limit its flying options and came up with a plan.
Our assets: a broom, a framed painting, a large piece of
cardboard that is the back of a poster frame as well as the plexiglass
for said frame.
What we really needed was a net. We don’t have one.
Henley offered, “Dad has one!”
“Buddy, we’re not calling your dad at 10:30 at night to
drive two miles to bring us a fishing net. Plus, the last time we had a bat in
the house, I had to deal with it because he was afraid.”
“True. But he does have a net.”
Noted.
Our idea: open both staircase windows. I’ll brush it
down off the shelf with the broom. Deb, Jorn and Henley will hold up their
various large items so the bat can’t get out of the open staircase and into the
sitting room. It will see the barriers and fly right out the window.
 |
| Not a baby. |
It wasn't.
It should be known, that the last time there was a bat in
the basement, I saved it. Put on leather gloves, trapped it into a container and
put it in a tree. It was a baby. A baby bat. This. This was not a baby. I
wouldn’t have been at all surprised had it transformed into a man in a cape and
asked us to join the undead. The answer would be yes, by the way.
The bat flew over us. Grazing my arm, which caused a panic. My
associates used their large items to shield themselves from the circling bat,
so he flew right on by buzzing each of us. Several times.
There was screaming. So much screaming.
This repeated a couple times until he was exhausted or
injured or both and landed on the floor. Henley covered him with a basket, I slid the
plastic and cardboard underneath and we carefully, as a unit, walked the package down the
stairs to the balcony where he was, to a chorus of screams and giggles, released to freedom.
The children were calmed and returned to their rooms, where
I assume, they were texting their friends the tale late into the night.
Deb and
I returned to bed. A little amped up.
“So, you know, I’m rethinking the bat house.”
Deb sighed, “this is just coming to you NOW?”
“Well, I was originally thinking why would a bat come into
our house when it has a house of its own?”
“Sort of like how neighbors don’t just walk in because they have
their own houses?”
“Exactly.”
I'm not sure if bats respect property boundaries. My hunch is no.
More surprising than a bat in the house is that Barry, fat
Barry brought it in. That he somehow nabbed it off the ledge and held onto it
for a solid 15 minutes. He was probably relieved to spit it out when he
did. I’m sure the whole thing was terribly exhausting for him.
Probably for the bat too.
Should you be interested in a sampling of the Bat Shit Show, take a look. The camera work isn't good. Because, bat.
